Monday, August 29, 2011

House Cleaning: Reflections from Sprit to Soil

So, let’s call a spade a spade---I am a bad blogger. No consistency. Omni-Cyberspace, forgive me; it has been 8 months since my last blog. 8 MONTHS!!! Worst BLOGGER EVER! However, in recent bouts of being knocked on my ass from illness--- several reflections have been made, one of which has led me to try, at least, to blog, once a month. Once a month to reflect on things non-academic (if that is possible these days), and send thoughts out into the cyberverse on issues maybe we can converse about… unless my few readers have given up on me. I am after all the crappy spouse who left eight months ago saying they were running to 7/11 for a pack of ciggies…

I have spent the last almost two months knocked on my bottom; primarily by an infection that moved from one part of my body, to my skin, to my blood. All caused as a result of a chronic inflammatory autoimmune disorder that some of you know I battle. There are many such disorders and you might be familiar with a few of them: fibromayalgia, lupus, crohn’s, arthritis (various forms), and many others. These diseases, such as lupus,  fibromayalgia, chronic migraine disorders,  and others, are three times more prevalent in women of color (Native, African, Latina, etc). 

And yet, like abuse, sometimes we remain silent, bearing internal bruises, batterings in silence.

Survival is something to be proud of, it is triumphant-- but triumph is not always pretty. It is not always some thing to be boasted and put on display. The things one does, or the histories of survival, triumphs over erasure are not always stories of celebration, sometimes they are ugly, sometimes people do what they had/have to do. Some scars we carry in pride, some in shame… And while we should surely celebrate those stories of triumph with grace, we should not forget or pretend those ugly histories do not exist. Like any trauma--- to cut it out--- to erase it, is to negate something that makes us, us. Who we are, who I am. I think pain, trauma, acts of survival, graceful and foul must be lived through, acknowledged, and grown through, it remains a part of you. To erase it is to never allow growth or healing or proper knowing of the self.

I am an Indigenous descended / Mestiza woman with chronic illness. Native American women are at an increased risk for autoimmune disease, including lupus, arthritis /RA, and 3x more likely than whites to suffer. I am also a survivor of not only histories but a statistical survivor of violence and sexual assault. I am not ashamed of these things anymore. I embrace my survivals and their keloid scarring for the beautiful weaving tapestry of resistances that they are. I do not lay down and I do not surrender… I may have stepped out for a while, but I like persistent dandelions I come back. And look it up. Dandelions are not weeds to pulled from the lawn, they are edibles, they are medicals they are dyes. Survivors not disposables. We rise. We remain.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Some of my Favorite Blogs: An Incomplete List of Awesomeness

Some of my Favorite Blogs: An Incomplete List of Awesomeness

A list of wonderful writers, some well known, some not, whose print work I adore, or whose work is only available (as yet) online. While many of you will be familiar with more of the popular folks on the list I encourage you to check out some of the lesser-known names, or if you didn’t know some of our more beloved folks were in the blogosphere…surprise! They are! I encourage you to check them out. All are Indigenous, some federally recognized, some not. HOWEVER, they ALL belong to Indigenous/Mestizo/Métis/Mixedblood/Indigenous Descended communities of the Americas. This is by no means a complete list, but reflects those whose Blogs I have followed for a while, have tracked down or who have tracked me down and let me know they are out there. And I can honestly say…these folks ROCK! \m/
PS (if you know where some of our other beloved folks are…let me know!!!)
In no particular order…

Carolyn Dunn (Mvskogean-Creek/Seminole, Cajun, Creole, Tunica-Biloxi) “Tales from a Hollywood Indian,” aside from following the fabulous Carolyn Dunn, Mvskoke-Creole Diva Extraordinaire, and her adventures as Author, Educator, Mother, Wife, Playwright, Mankiller (relax, as in THE Mankillers, all woman Northern Style drum group), this blog also highlights works of other writers, students and colleagues. Dunn also shares samplings of her works in progress. Not to be missed are samplings of her upcoming collection to be titled, The Stains of Burden and Dumb Luck. I first came across Dunn years ago, when trying to find Indigenous voices from Louisiana. Her poem, “Columbus’ Footprint” hit me in the heart, and had me rushing to buy Outfoxing Coyote. Her work as a poet and in literature, along with the sociological and mixed race studies work of Andrew Jolivette has become a focus and inspiration for me as a doctoral student. All I can say, is I simply adore from the top of my NDN-Creole Head to the Tip of my NDN-Creole Toes... Carolyn... http://realhollywoodindian.blogspot.com/

Tiffany Midge (Standing Rock Sioux): “A Girl Named Turquoise:” The always witty, always real and always amazingly talented Midge is one of my favorite poets, and all around wickedly awesome Indigenous authors. I was first introduced to Midge via Reinventing the Enemy’s Language, edited by Joy Harjo and Gloria Bird. Her Native Writer Circle of the Americas Award Winning Book, Outlaws, Renegades & Saints: Diary of a Mixed-Up Half Breed, had me laughing and crying by page ten—not kidding, by page ten! The talent in her Blog is no exception from commentary on vintage ads to her original poetry, it is a must read, must share, and an American Indian Poet who needs to be included into our college syllabi more often!! http://tourquoise.livejournal.com/

Tracey Colson (Louisiana Creole): “Gumbo Life,” The beautiful reflections, stories and educational nuances of Louisiana Creole resident and educator Tracey Colson are not only poetic, but essential to cultural survival, taking oral tradition into the digital age, adding personal reflections and humor. A friend and one who I am increasingly beginning to think of as someone whom I might have been separated from at birth…lol. Colson’s efforts to preserve the unique Mestizo Culture of Cane River Creoles, Louisiana Creoles, and Creoles of Color at large are an inspiration. Her voice is at times poignant, unique, and at others just honest. http://gumbolife.wordpress.com/

Lee Francis IV (Laguna Pueblo): “High Desert Madness” is the eclectic blog penned and hosted by the eclectic poet and educator himself, Wordcraft Circle National Director and new proud papa, Lee Francis IV. The award winning mixedblood Laguna spoken word slam poet is back in cyber space with a bang! From poetic personal observation, to good old fashion rant, to information on the Slam scene, Francis has it covered. Recent posts border on prose poetry to creative nonfiction carrying Francis’ clear imagery and voice, picturesque and always evocative. http://highdesertmadness.wordpress.com/

Joy Harjo (Mvskoke Creek): “Joy Harjo’s Poetic Adventure’s in the Last World Blog.” Ok, so I really, really, really, don’t know what to say here…I mean its Joy… Joy… She who has saved many a life through her poetry. I was writing poetry, before I could spell enough words to write poetry. When I was in about 9th grade maybe, my parents moved up north to a place where we were well, “weird” meaning the only “indigy” folks. My poetry was “weird” and I didn’t know there were other Indian writers, I was 18 when I discovered Joy Harjo. In Mad Love and War, saved my life, through sexual assault, through difference, through poverty…so what can I say… It’s Joy. Joy News, events, with bits and pieces of prose and prose poetry… http://joyharjo.blogspot.com/

Deborah Miranda (Ohlone-Costanoan Esselen, Chumash): “When Turtles Fly” is a strange marriage of Education and Literary, the Blogspot of Deborah Miranda. What can I say about Ms. Miranda… Well, writers and academics are given, quite frankly to intellectual and artistic crushes… Miranda is one of mine, artistically and intellectually. Her poetry is fierce, raw, smart, and her theory and literary engagement is savvy, witty-- just brilliant. I have an academic and artistic crush…her blog only reinforces this. The marriage of history, of education with poetry, prose and narrative is nothing short of an intricate braiding that takes the reader through a process that connects rather than disconnects past, present, maker and meaning, in a process that is at times violent, emotional and uncomfortable…at others, beautiful, natural, and unique as only Miranda’s voice and vision can be… I want to be the bastard child of Deborah Miranda, Damián Baca, Andrew Jolivette, and Carolyn Dunn when I grow up… Can anyone arrange that??? Of course I think I might also be older than Jolivette and Baca…crap.
http://whenturtlesfly.blogspot.com/

Terra Trevor (Cherokee, Delaware, Seneca): “River, Blood and Corn” is a Literary Journal spearheaded by Indigenous writer Terra Trevor and boasts writing by a host of well known and emerging Indigenous writers from the Americas. Trevor, eloquently states the goal of the journal as, “promoting community and strengthening culture so the link continues from person to person, from one community to another, from one generation to the next.” From sometimes-themed issues, to personal narrative, poetry, creative non-fiction, and even reviews, “Blood River and Corn” seeks to offer a wide array of topics both literary and informational for an audience targeting Indigenous and Indigenous Allies. http://riverbloodandcorn.blogspot.com/

LeAnne Howe (Oklahoma Choctaw): “On the Prairie Diamond,” the Blog by writer, critic, and all around bad-ass Indigenous woman of letters LeAnne Howe, boasts updates, words of wisdom, and original posts. I first read Howe’s novel Shell Shaker, like many folks, in college, and fell in love, despite being bashful when meeting her in person…backwoods bayou NDN that I was. (Why are we so shy when we go off to college?) Her recent Blogs manage to connect to Indigenous peoples here at home in insightful ways from her current location in Amman Jordan. Living in Oklahoma, and overall being a southern, more specifically a southern Indigenous woman (who calls the Gulf of Mexico home), there is something about Howe’s use of language, no matter where she, that calls to mind family. Howe, even when sending out updates, manages to weave a story, she is a storyteller at heart, and this is always evident in her blog posts. http://mikokings.wordpress.com/

Charles Jolivette (Louisiana Creole/ Atakapa-Ishak): “Creating Étouffée” While Charles has been too busy to update his blog recently, because he has been writing, I do want to take a moment to mention his site. His novel Étouffée is now available on Kindle, via Amazon! His book of poetry, While the Gumbo Cools, has also been given the green light by a publishing house, so keep a look out on his webpage and blogsite. What can I say we NDN-Creole like us some food titles! http://thewritecreole.blogspot.com/

Shannon Lwiz Boutte (Louisiana Creole): “Chronicles of Lady Drama.” Ms. Boutte is an emerging voice in Louisiana Creole preservation, culture and music. She is a smart, feisty, and sassy young woman whose potential is just being discovered. Her motto is, “To enlighten with culture.” Part of our generation of young Louisiana Creoles, working with and dare I say inspired by folks like Andrew Jolivette and Christophe Landry, seeking to assert Creole voice, culture and identity into a society that has sought to erase us along with other mestizo/Indigenous Diasporic peoples in the south. Educating and doing it with style is Ms. Boutee, aka Lady Drama’s m.o. Educate, keep it real and keep it sassy, and she does it well! http://chroniclesladydrama.com/

La Bloga: Chicano/a Literature, News and More (Mestizo): Featuring the best of the best is Mestizo/a literati. “Chicano & Chicano, Latino & Latina authors, novelists, essayists, poetas, children's story authors, teachers, lawyers, y otros.” Daniel Olivas, Lisa Alvarado, Olga Garcia and many others (please see the editorial staff) work hard to not only produce themselves with the other EXCEPTIONAL staff, but to also draw from other Indigenous and Latino/Mestizo work in the field, the best known folks and the emerging voices across mediums and concerns… The best of the best out there… La Bloga is without a doubt the number one Blog for Chicano/a one stop blog Shop ;-)
http://labloga.blogspot.com/

Monday, July 12, 2010

Creole Radio: July 13; 10pm Central Time: Jolivette and Gomez

Mark your calendars: This week on Creole Radio: "Native American Roots and the Creole Culture," with guests Andrew Jolivette author of Louisiana Creoles: Cultural Recovery and Mixed Race Native American Identity; and and yours truly, Rain Gomez. July 13th 10 pm central time!

I Am Creole: Radio

This episode of Creole Radio, presented by the I am Creole Network will focus on the Native American/Indigenous roots of Louisiana Creole culture. Topics to be discussed include Indigenous Louisiana, including the Federally Recognized tribes, State Recognized tribes, and Indigenous descended communities/peoples in this racially and culturally unique state. Dr. Jolivette, and myself, with host Shannon Boutte, will also introduce listeners to historic tribes and Indigenous place names in Louisiana. A good portion of the show will focus on introducing and illustrating Indigenous traditions, heritages and culture ways that have influenced Louisiana Creole culture, to make Creoles part of both the Indigenous Diaspora and African Diaspora in Louisiana. Dr. Jolivette’s work on the importance and presence of Native American identity in Creole culture has catapulted him to the forefront of both Creole and Indigenous studies. Lastly we will touch on the often sensitive topic of the difference between being a Creole who claims Indian/Native descent and someone who claims being Indian, from a legal and political standpoint.


Andrew Jolivette (Opelousa/Atakapa-Ishak/Creole) is associate professor and chair of American Indian Studies at San Francisco State University. He is the author of two books, Cultural Representation in Native America (AltaMira) and Louisiana Creoles: Cultural Recovery and Mixed Race Native American Identity (Rowman & Littlefield).
Dr. Andrew Jolivette bio


Rain Gomez bio

Friday, July 9, 2010

Poems of the Insomniac

Hello great cyber silence... So I have been trying to write something more than poetry, but alas find myself with several projects whose momentums have run out... So until the wheel of academic fire is sparked anew... Some poetry from an insomiac for you...

Rambling Woman

Poetic ramblings in the a.m.
Of a night not yet ended and
A dawn not yet awakened.
Sitting in the silence of
White noise of a fan
So persistent in its
Need to be heard
That it becomes a backdrop
To this night’s tumble.

Tumbling over too many ideas,
Experiences and histories
That I have not found a language to articulate---
So my expression is a broken
Menagerie of poetry, song and paint.
A rambling that needs to exist in
Four dimensions to be read.

Every pour of my skin
Is expelling the pollution of living---
From your touch to the air to water gone slick
With black blood and the promises of corpses.
While my pours spew out their sick,
My tongue grows old and heavy
Imprisoned by broken molar and shovel teeth.

I can hear the rhythmic promise of
Song dancing at the four corners
Of our house tonight
As my pantomime of indifference
Slips away into the whirl
Of an agonizing grace.

Cathondian

I am lighting candles to St. Caballero.

I am burning sweetgrass and cedar.

I am praying to Our Lady of Prompt Succor

While offering tobacco by the river.


Mixedblood

My language is broken
Unlike my blood
Words here
Words there
Mispronounced scrambled
Expressions of the realities
Of Indigenous entropy
And my tangled mestizo blood…
Ten Little NDNs
For the sisters


one little, two little so many ndns, ndns playing, flighting, loving, stealing, lying, writing, ndns healing, laughing, little ndns remembering names of little ndns who before them came.

ten little ndns come and go with tough skins, some with lies and some with fists, some with poetry and pain

one, one little ndn stubbed her toe and spilled her ndn blood, so she tried to steal mine

ndn number two, remembered ceremony and genoicide, she brought me memories and blood, scars of birth and loss and carried them on her skin even when they told her without a card she couldn’t keep them

the third ndn took my love, bathed me in corn water and soot, leaving me smelling the absence of his hair on the pillow in firelight

four, four little ndns went to school, one got married, one was lost, another danced with grey goose trickster, while the last leanred a new tongue to forget his own

the fifth little ndn learned to lie, to cover the bodies of ndn women with indigo silence, tearing down families and instilling his mythos convinced he was sweetwater second coming

ndn number six, left all she knew, for a land of blue. blue skies, blue eyes, blue horses finding her lanaguage in the progression of age and the turn of tail and flick of ear

seven, the seventh little ndn reminded me to trade moccosins for combat boots and leather jacket hard as rhino skin, preparing for battle in 2010

ndn number eight dropped her hooch and found her tongue, kicked my ass up when I was done

the ninth little ndn ran from memories and pain, broken wombs and shame, found her man and raised her kids walking proud in her olive mixedblood skin

ten, ten little ndns came and went, leaving me stronger with scars still healing, picked me up and taught to name, courage over fear, and action over blame.

One, little two little three and four, five, little six little eight and more…ten little ndns with love, loss, strength and pain…some survived and some have lost their names…
All poetry, art and writing property of L. Rain C. Goméz © 2010

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Louisiana Creole: Why It Matters an Encore Blog

WHY LOUISIANA CREOLE MATTERS: A Personal NDN-Creole Perspective[1]
By: L. Rain C Gomez

“…we dive and rise continuously from waters pushed from the Gulf of Mexico into the interior deltas. Our inherited blood brackish as these bayous…neither fresh nor sea-salt; yet natural in its inherent Louisiana topography.” “Old Crawdad the Fisherman”--- L. Rain C Gomez[2]

I am reposting portions of the blog/conversation I had about donating/saving the Louisiana Creole Heritage Center. This resource is vitally important to not only those of us of Louisiana Creole heritage/descent, but to understanding both the African and Indigenous Diaspora in the Americas, and in particular the racial stratification and cultural heritage of the Gulf south… The Louisiana gulf coast has survived Katrina, Rita and is now battling the BP oil spill. Indigenous Louisiana includes not only the federal and state recognized tribes, but also the vast Mestizo cultures, Creoles, Cajuns, Redbones… While we cannot always battle the elements, or corporate greed with immediate results, we can save our cultural centers…

A few months ago, I received the letter that many people on the Louisiana Creole Heritage Center database received. And most recently, a week or so ago received the news that the Creole Heritage Center needed to become self-sustaining. The preservation of this resource is in our hands, through knowledge and donations. I was shocked that a leading resource in genealogy, scholarship, community outreach and support for people of Louisiana Creole descent was in danger of closing, due to the troubled economic climate and lack of government funding[3]. What can I do, as a Louisiana Creole, scholar, student, and writer? “Well gosh darnit,” I can further awareness. Why does Louisiana Creole matter? And why do scholars, community members and Indigenous descended people need to keep our only National Creole Heritage Foundation/Center alive for future generations? We need this resource because it is our history as a Nation, a vital cultural and linguistic preservation/revitalization resource, and part of our inheritance as Indigenous peoples in the Americas. I will not pretend that this is not of personal concern to myself. Obviously, being of Louisiana Creole descent I am personally invested. While I may not have two nickels to rub together I have a way to contribute, and that is by knowledge making on this vital resource!

I suppose I first must attempt to clarify what is Louisiana Creole. While there has been much debate on what Louisiana Creole culture and heritage is, particularly in reference to the later French European populations, and other “mestizo” or creolized/mixed-blood populations (in Louisiana), there is a consensus among scholars, and community members alike. “In Louisiana Creoles: Cultural Recovery and Mixed-Race Native American Identity, Andrew Jolivette takes on the task of defining Creole identity as it specifically relates to American Indian descent and inheritance. According to Jolivette and the Creole heritage center in Louisiana, Louisiana Creoles are defined as peoples of mixed American Indian, African (Black/West Indies), French, and Spanish ancestry who reside in or have familial ties to Louisiana.” [4]What does this mean, well for my family, and for myself as scholar, it means that Louisiana Creole Indigeneity is a part of the grander narrative of American Indian survivance, negotiation and survival, in similar ways that Chicano/a Mestizo, Canadian Métis narratives are part of the Indigenous narratives of the Americas.[5] While my academic scholarship focuses a great deal on Louisiana Creole Indigeneity, it is not the time or place to pose a purely academic argument.

However, it is the time and place to let the general public know that a vital historic resource and preservation/revitalization source is in danger of closing for all Americans, regardless of race or cultural inheritance. I strongly urge those in Indigenous/Indigenous descended communities, other communities of color, and those of any inheritance who want to preserve resources for the unique and diverse culture of the American South, to take the time to help protect our unique history as members of this Nation. The Louisiana Creole narrative is a vital narrative of the U.S., Indigenous experience, African American experience, and racial/intermarriage politic. Louisiana has long fascinated, and continues to fascinate travelers, critical race scholars, linguistic studies, scholars of race and ethnicity, and the media. It is a decidedly unique state, whose history of intermarriage, indigenous presence, racial law and practice has given rise to decidedly distinct cultural communities. And most assuredly, the Louisiana Creole community is a wealth of historic experience on race, indigeneity, material culture and even tourism.

For me while my Mvskogean ancestry/inheritance is intricately linked, kin-tied if you will, to my Louisiana Creole heritage, the two are separate but related. It is more than the Choctaw grandma who married that Creole boy, or that Creek-Creole grandma who married the Choctaw-Creole pappy. Being Creole is to be tri-racial, to have an inheritance that is braided alongside, Indian, African, French and Spanish, into a new unique culture: a métis or mestizo culture. For me, being of Mvskogean descent (Choctaw and Creek) is to be of Indian descent, and it is as distinct as my mother’s Canadian Sioux métis father who crossed the border from Alberta in the early 1930’s. The various Indian bloodlines that comprise my Creole inheritance are what makes my Creole heritage Mestizo, a weaving of Indian, Black and French/Spanish into something distinctly Louisiana, distinctly Mestizo… I consider myself a multiracial Indigenous woman, who grew up in a Mestizo house and culture; a woman of Mvskogean (Louisiana Choctaw/Creek), Louisiana Creole, Canadian Sioux and CelticAmerican descent…(Yes I embrace the totality of my racial/cultural inheritance) This personal explanation of “identity”[6] aside, I honestly believe that preserving the Louisiana Creole Culture is as vitally important as saving any other Indigenous culture, or métis, mestizo community. Creoles while carrying unique voices of African American experience, also carry Indigenous bloodlines of many South Eastern tribes, and this blood manifests itself in cultural inheritance, language, material culture and familial practices. Louisiana Creoles hold a place in American History, Entertainment, Science and Technology, and are testimony to valiant survival of mixed race culture and identity in the American South. To preserve the Louisiana Creole Heritage Center is to preserve histories of racism, of intermarriage, indigeneity, architecture, food-ways, material culture, oral narratives, pidgin languages, genealogy and of course law.

The Creole Heritage Center of Louisiana, is now accepting donations to help keep the doors and resources open, for all of us. Please visit the Louisiana Creole Heritage Center letter for survival at: http://vintage.nsula.edu/creoleapps/documents/ClosureONLINE.pdf, the new Emergency Monthly Creole Support page: http://creole.nsula.edu/assets/Foundation/Just8.htm
Or the Louisiana Creole Heritage Center Website at: http://creole.nsula.edu/
Yakoke, Mvto, Mesi, Pilamaya` Thanks Y’all


[1] This editorial in no way represents the voice of the Louisiana Creole Heritage Center, its affiliates or a unified Louisiana Creole community voice. I am expressing my concern and opinion as an individual of Louisiana Creole and American Indian descent, any differences of opinion should be addressed to me alone, and not the Louisiana Creole Heritage Center.
[2] L Rain C Gomez, Smoked Mullet Cornbread Memory,(Forthcoming); winner Native Writers Circle of the Americas, First Book Award Poetry 2009.
[3] Please see the letter on the possible closing of the Creole Heritage Center: http://vintage.nsula.edu/creoleapps/documents/ClosureONLINE.pdf
both the state and federal levels, and well beyond our control, have put our Center in this position.
[4] Andrew Jolivette, Louisiana Creoles: Cultural Recovery and Mixed-Race Native American Identity, 6. Taken from: L. Rain C-Cranford-Gomez, “Brackish Bayou Blood: Weaving Mixed-Blood Indian Creole Identity Outside the Written Record,” American Indian Culture and Research Journal 32, no. 2 (2008): 98.
[5] L. Rain C Gomez, “On Sienna and Cole Colored Thighs: Sex, Slavery and the Indian/Creole Body Colonized,” SW/TX PCA ACA Conference 2010.
[6] While I am not a fan of breaking down and “bordering” concepts of identity, let alone Indigenous identity, I also recognize the sometimes hostile environment of defining and relating American Indian identity in our colonized Americas. In explaining my personal relationship to my multiracial Indigenous heritage, I seek only to clarify they ways in which I express my Indianess, in light of legal, tribal, community, familial and governmental politic.

Loving an NDN Man

Orignal Post: Tuesday, June 8th 2010 4:00 PM www.ohoyocreole.bravelog.com
New Poems: Loving an NDN Man

Greetings folks in the blogosphere. I have to admonish myself for not being the most disciplined blogger. After being down for a few weeks battling a chronic migraine from hell, and autoimmune flare-ups, I have started writing again… Currently I am working on a potential book proposal/CFP/and book introduction with the fabulous JoLee Blackbear an academic, activist and educator of Anishinaabe stock. I have finally gotten around to editing my poetry manuscript, and last but not least back to working on my PCA presentation expanded to article length. While I have been absent, I have also been silent on my blog (but not my Facebook) on some issues, which have me particularly fired up: Arizona’s Immigration Law, and the BP Oil Spill.

I will be posting some thoughts and reactions to both these things this week in my blog column. I, like some folks, find it harder to articulate myself when I am fired-up…anger can obscure language…

So for now, I hope ya’ll enjoy a sample of recent poetry…

Loving an NDN Man


Loving an NDN man means choosing well. Ignoring the bowlegged swagger and puffed out pigeon breast---glistening slicked back braided hair and bolo tie with beaded eagle feather… Made by the last NDN woman he snagged flashing his uneven smile at NAC potluck.

Loving an NDN man means learning to deal with his, or your own internal colonized bullshit. Learning to accept and deal with your light skin and light eyes, or your or his lack of enrollment. Accepting the other as enrolled, unenrolled, rez raised or urban born, language speaking or tripping over colonized tongues, commodity memories or welfare feasts and his or your tribe’s politics. Loving an NDN man means to help him accept or heal his insecurity over his white father, white mother, or black daddy.

Loving an NDN man means, refusing to get caught in, caught up or subject to his pissing contests, spitting contests, and Super Injun politics. When picking your NDN man, skip over those who rag on your cuz from Atlanta, who has never been to stomp, doesn’t know what skillet bread is, and never stayed out all night doin’ 49. When selecting your NDN man, bypass those who are dry drunks, drunks, or still caught up in capturing their masculinity by claiming they are traditionals, and that means “you have no say,” walk behind him, and keep your intelligence hidden so he can reclaim delusions of internalized colonialism by pretending he is Wind in His Hair from Dances with Wolves--- or any other noble NDN Hollywood dream vision.

Loving an NDN man takes discipline. Don’t get caught up in his prior love affairs, or between him and his mama or sister. Learn to be a friend, family or sister to his family. Get his mama and sister on your side--- So when he tries to pull a macho man, “I rule the house,” white world BS, and you throw him out… Mama and sister don’t take him in.

Loving an NDN man means struggling together to make ends meet, accepting the variety of traditions of your intertribal, mixed heritage modern day realities. Loving an NDN man means laughing when all you want to do is cry, and learning when to throw you shoe at him and when to hold him. Loving an NDN man means choosing a man who your proud of, whose proud of you, and who will teach his sons to honor women. Loving an NDN man means remembering you come from strong NDN women, and knowing he can’t be a strong NDN man without you…

Successfully loving an NDN man means loving your NDN self first…

Confessions of Skin

If truth be words written on flesh,
Then surely I am left bereft
For lines and ink tattooed on me
Surely read as lies you see.

And if love be kisses placed on skin,
Then surely I have been marked
With little bruises of your sin
Over worn-out breasts and heart.

If right ever were your touch,
Then how oddly the fairytale breaks.
For over the years of absent hush
My epidermis forsakes---
In lines and scars read like confessions
The story of skin and violent obsessions.

From head to toe
And pubis to ass
This book was written
With fists and blood to last.

Cartography of my body reads
Confessions of skin and unwelcome seed…

Foot Notes on Loving and NDN Man



1. Watch your toes; cause his cowboy boots can miss the two-step beat.


2. Learn to use the space between your big toe and second toe to pick things up… His lighter, his guitar picks, random beads, the smoke which fell outta his pocket--- Cause you spend enough time bending down doing laundry, housework and picking up kids.


3. Remember, he can “put his foot down,” but your foot can kick him out.

When We Walk

Orignal Post: Sunday, May 9th 2010 3:00 PM www.ohoyocreole.bravelog.com


When We Walk
For my mom Julia


When we walk, we keep our backs straight,
Even if pain, disease, or
The weight of persistent survival
Bends our bones…

I learned the power of steel
In my mother’s shadow,
In her arms,
In her songs.
Not steel which cuts,
But steel which encases bodies
Worn and tired.
Steel of nurturing strength
Keeping our backs straight
As we walk.

Mom watches her daughters running in the backyard humid heat of noon showers just passed in gulf sun. Their hair is bleached by days and weeks of salty beach sunshine…keeping impending dark locks at bay a little longer…Their bodies belie their hair, browned with high round cheekbones. The youngest one’s eyes slanting, sparkling with daring; the oldest one’s deepset and shadowed. Mom watches us, sitting in worn dented folding aluminum chair. She is sewing, beading Christmas stockings made of velvet, felt, sequins and small sparkling bugle beads. A Santa, for Rosebud, and a Frosty for Tee.

I remember, I am a child, sitting under the kitchen table. Dug in my own make-believe foxhole, hunkered down in my makeshift lodging with Barbie dolls and imagination. Above the cadence of my mother’s voice as she talks, is warm, almost melodic in even timbre. She is talking to sister. She is talking to friends. She is talking to Nana, to Kathy, to other family, to father. Her presence reassures me, huddled there with the sound of her voice above. At this kitchen table years went by, and I learned what was unfitting behavior, what my mother would and would not stand for, and above all never give in, never to compromise who I was. At this table my mother’s voice warm as fresh coffee, husky dipped like smoke, I learned about menses, babies, love and to embrace my difference. At this table I learned why language was sacred and we speak with caution. I learned not only who I was, but who I was not. Through these conversations, listening under the table--- to sitting there with mother. I knew there was a sense of overcoming oppression, poverty, of pain and pride. Standing, rising from hard wooden chairs, she would walk straight, her daughters by her sides.

When we walk, we keep our backs straight,
Our eyes alert to the road ahead
Our families by our sides.
We keep on our paths,
Keeping our backs straight
When the path becomes chaotic.

When we cry, we cry silently.
Crouching in the fury of water
Gushing down on face and backs
In the shower.
We cry so our tears cannot
Be separated from shower rains.

Mom is sitting straight, like women before. Holding her mother’s hand. The power of her mother now shrunken into sterile bed sheets, cancer eaten. The machines breaking silence---she is strong, for her father, her sister, each with demons they cannot battle without her mother, without her… She sits straight. Almost ten years later, mom is sitting straight, like women before. Holding her father’s hand. The air is thick with smells of hospice. She is strong, for her sister, her husband. Shouldering the responsibility of the pain Papa carried across the border. She sits straight.

Mom sits on back porch, evening persistence of pain driving her into the balmy night. Pulled up to the table her three companions are constant: the pain of degenerative arthritis and spinal stenosis, today’s newspaper crossword, and a lit Misty Light 100. Mom’s hands look how I remember Nana’s hands when I was young. Knuckles enlarged, slowly becoming bent, small branches who have lost the will to grow straight… Fingers holding her pencil, fingers holding her cigarette, sending smoke filled with silent prayers, thanks and remembrances to dance between worlds. Smoke floating to merge with the streak of gray Milky Way in the sky above.

Her face in profile, strikes a perfect balance between cultures, Nakoda and Irish…the beauty of miscegenation. Forehead high rounded, lined with years of laughter, of tears and days spent furrowed with the strength of women who came before, walking straight. Cheekbones broad, high sharply angular in dim porch light. Skin reddened, her melanin faded like a sweater once tanned raw sienna turning fairer in washings, till skin is supple softness. Her nose is long and straight, sporting the same small Irish ball on the end, of mother, and her mother. Mom’s lips are straight, smudged pinkness over her strong square chin and jaw… Her hair, once deep brown shot with mahogany, now cascades like long soft foamy white waves down the shore of her back. Her hair slowly falling forward as she writes her answer: “OVID”, in the space 5 down: “Roman poet, __________ author of Metamorphoses.”

I learned the act of
Walking straight,
In my mother’s shadow,
In her arms,
In her songs
And the everyday gentleness
Which belied the strength
Of holding us together
Across miles and generations.

When I cry, I cry silently.
Crouching in the fury of water
Gushing down on face and back
In the shower.
I cry so my tears cannot
Be separated from shower rains.

When I walk, I walk straight.
As women who keep tradition,
Who keep truth,
Humility, power, and ferocity
Braided into the fibers
Of bone and tendon.

The strength of being
The center,
I learned walking straight
In my mother’s shadow.